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keep asking her if she means it. She insists that she will be what is called my guardian from now on.
    Finally the day arrives when my tormentors are supposed to come back. All day, my stomach’s knotted with anxiety. They all burst into the living room acting as if they are glad to see me, Vera with her white teeth and her phony smile that sends chills down my back. I hide in the bathroom. The adults chat a little, and then Gram tells them. She says that I’m not well and she’s my guardian now, with my parents’ permission. I come out just to say good-bye, standing close to Gram.
    Vera looks genuinely disappointed. I think, sure you are, you won’t have me to yell at and hit any more. They make a show of kissing me good-bye as if they cared. I stay close to Gram as we wave good-bye, terrified that they will come back and snatch me away. But the car disappears down the street. Gram, my savior, keeps her arm around me as we stand there waving. Now I belong to her.

 
    Enid and Aunt Helen
    Gram moves us to Enid, Oklahoma, a few months after I come back to her from Vera’s. The grand sweep of the prairie and the huge blue sky go on forever, knitting into a silvery horizon. Across the street from our little house on Park Street, an ancient cottonwood reaches its branches to the sky, the undersides of its leaves gleaming in the sun. Cows graze and moo contentedly. Everything is so peaceful. I can imagine Indians sitting under that cottonwood tree, horses’ hooves and thick clouds of dust, bows and arrows. Evidence that this place was Indian Territory less than one hundred years ago is everywhere: Red Chief Motel, Cheyenne Café, the Cherokee Theatre.
    Wheat fields surround the town, their graceful stalks wafting in the wind all spring, changing gradually from baby green to deep amber. I come to love these beautiful landscapes—the wheat, the wide deep-blue sky with great thunderheads building, the clouds that show you the shining underside of heaven.
     
    One afternoon not long after moving to Enid, Gram tells me to get dressed. We are going to visit her best friends, Aunt Helen and Uncle Maj, who live across town.
    “Which aunt is Aunt Helen?” I ask.
    “She’s not a real aunt; she’s my best friend. ‘Aunt’ is what you call someone who’s such a good friend, they’re like family.”
    “Why is the man called Uncle Maj?”
    “He was a major in the army during the war, so we call him Maj. His real name is Russell Claire, and we call him R. C. for short.”
    Gram puts on a good blue dress and white sandals, glosses on red lipstick, and fluffs on her powder. She always makes herself look nice. As we get in the car, I say hi to the cows grazing under the cottonwood. I’m still amazed to actually be living with Gram. I worry about Vera, sometimes wondering if she’ll figure out a way to burst my bubble of happiness, but I trust now that Gram plans to keep me.
    Off we go, bumping along on dusty Market Street with its red dirt blowing around us in great gusts all the way through the “Negro section.” The street changes from dirt to concrete when we hit the white part of town. The road crosses Highway 81, the route of the old Chisholm Trail. Gram tells me, “The Chisholm Trail is named after Jesse Chisholm. He drove cattle from Texas north into Kansas before the trains. It was the most famous trail in the west.” Gram loves history; her books are piled up all over the house. She likes to tell me about the past and says what happened then is a part of us now.
    Eventually Gram stops in front of a green-shingled house with a red front porch and an emerald-green yard set off by bushes of furling red roses. A smiling, red-faced woman wearing a pink striped dress bounces down the stairs, her arms out, her soft belly jiggling with laughter. “Oh, let me get my hands on that pretty little thing. God love ya, darlin’.” She squeezes me against her body and my nose is pressed so hard into her soft stomach that I